Poppy Day (15 page)

‘What?’

‘It’s Mrs Cricket, isn’t it?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you.’ This was the first and last time that he would lie to her. ‘My name is Miles Varrasso. I’m a journalist and I would like to talk to you about your husband, about Martin.’

She stared at him, unsure how to react. It was a weird
coincidence
, auspicious, some might say. She had been told that it was inevitable, they would find out Martin’s name and they would come looking for her. It was just sooner than she had anticipated. As far as Poppy was concerned it was a good thing. She’d thought about it all night, the more publicity the better. If people prayed for Martin, asked questions and thought about Martin, willing him to be free, the less the MoD could ‘ignore’ him. She had decided not to let that happen. He would not be used as currency, not her husband.

‘Yes, I’m Mrs Cricket.’

‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ He pushed his glasses up onto his nose even though they were already in position, one of his many nervous habits that would become endearing.

‘I’m on my way to work, but I guess half an hour isn’t going to make much difference; sure. There’s a cafe around the corner.’

They walked in silence to the cafe where Martin and Poppy had eaten a thousand breakfasts; where she and the girls had laboured over a thousand cups of tea and coffee. Poppy
considered
the stranger that strode along beside her; well spoken, posher than she was comfortable mixing with. He was
expensively
dressed, with very kind eyes that crinkled into more lines than you would expect to see on someone of his age, which she couldn’t easily determine.

Sonny saw her enter. Having been to school with her mum, he had known Poppy her whole life. He was enormously fat and was, as usual, resplendent in his food- and drink-spattered apron, holding court from behind the counter. ‘’ello my darlin’! Long time no see. How’s my gel?’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Sonny.’

‘That’s good to hear, Poppy Day, and what about that bloke of yours, keeping his chin up and his head down, I ’ope?’

She smiled at Miles Varrasso and then at Sonny. ‘Yeah, something like that.’

They sat at the wipe-clean table, nursing hot cappuccinos. Poppy didn’t know where to start but she didn’t need to, Miles was a consummate professional.

‘Why did he call you Poppy Day?’

‘Err… because it’s my name?’

‘Really? Poppy Day? That’s fantastic!’

‘Why is that fantastic, Miles Varrasso?’

‘I don’t know; it’s just memorable. It’s good to have a name that people will remember. How many John Smiths are ever immortalised?’

‘Well, there was the Labour leader, the beer brand and wasn’t it a John Smith that helped colonise North America? I remember reading something about him and Pocahontas—’

‘OK, bad example, but Poppy Day is a great name,’ Miles smiled, creating those wrinkles and emphasising the word ‘grrrreaat’.

Poppy had once asked her mum why she had called her Poppy, knowing full well that her surname was Day. Cheryl looked at her daughter with a quizzical expression, took a deep drag on her cigarette and ran her tongue over her front teeth, a habit she had of checking for lipstick that might have adhered itself to the stained enamel. A confused crease appeared at the top of her nose, the one that she got whenever she had to make a decision or answer any question that wasn’t, ‘What you ’avin?’ The answer to that was always instant and unchanging, ‘Voddie and Coke’, as though calling it ‘voddie’ made it more of a cocktail. It was, however she referred to it, the first resort of the alcoholic. She stared at Poppy as though she didn’t have the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Poppy realised then that she didn’t, bless her. Poppy Day had a name that amused other people, the quips were endless. Poppy paid it little heed. It’s who she was, who she would always be.

She could have changed it when she got married, but decided against becoming a ‘Cricket’. She thought Poppy Cricket sounded worse than Poppy Day. Maybe that’s part of the reason why the two were drawn to each other. They both knew what it felt like to have a name that other people found hilarious or fascinating. The kind of name that when it was asked for and you gave, people would repeat, at least once,

‘Poppy Day?’

‘Martin Cricket?’

The bemused listener would stare with one eyebrow cocked as though they had made them up. Why would they? Poppy used to wonder what it would be like to live as one of the girls in her class who never had their name repeated either in
disbelief
or amusement. She thought that must be nice. Martin and Poppy knew that no matter what anyone thought of their names, when you were little and when you were them it was unfortunate, but there was naff all that you could do about it.

Poppy looked at the journalist, but said nothing. She wasn’t in the mood for the name conversation, not today. Unbeknown to the two, they were establishing the foundations of their friendship. She liked his enthusiasm and he her knowledge.

‘How old are you, Poppy?’

‘I’m twenty-two and you?’

‘And me?’

‘Yes, how old are you, Miles? It’s just that you have one of those faces that could be a young forty or an old thirty that’s had a really tough paper round.’

Miles laughed then, ‘You are right. It’s the latter, by the way. I am thirty-three but live off rubbish food, late nights, way too much caffeine and the odd cigarette, in fact lots of odd
cigarettes
.’ He sipped his coffee greedily, as though there was no connection between the beverage in his hands and the previous statement.

‘You won’t make old bones like that, Miles.’

‘Who says I want to make old bones?’

‘Mmmn… I guess maybe you don’t. I just assumed that no one wants to die before their time is up, before they have
finished
. I think that would be the worst thing, time suddenly running out for you without warning.’

‘Before they have finished what?’

‘Everything! Learning, teaching their kids, making the things that are important to them safe and secure. Seeing the world, making a difference.’

‘Goodness, I wasn’t banking on such a heavy conversation before breakfast!’

‘Miles, I think we both know that that’s not true.’ She smiled at him then, to let him know that she probably knew what he knew and that it was all right to mention it.

‘You know why I want to talk to you about Martin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Good.’ He exhaled with relief before continuing, ‘Can I ask you some questions, Poppy? I promise you that whatever I write, you can approve first if you want. Is that OK?’

‘Yes, I think so; this is all a bit new to me.’

‘I’m sure it is. I can’t imagine how difficult this must all be for you.’

‘Yeah, everyone keeps saying that.’

‘What’s he like, Martin?’

‘What does he look like? It’s difficult to describe someone that you know really well, isn’t it? There are so many
expressions
and different faces that I’ve lodged in my memory, that when I think of Mart, it’s difficult to think of just one. I can picture him in a zillion different ways, and places. They’re like tiny snapshots of an expression or a glance. He is five foot seven; just tall enough, is how I describe him. He had very blond hair when he was small, almost white. In his early teens it was just blond, now in his twenties it’s dirty blond. I can see him ending up sandy with a little bit of grey. It makes me smile to think of him like that. I’ll know then that we have come full circle, beginning, middle and end. He is solid. You know, one of those men that are square and firm to touch. My mum used to say if Mart got hit by the number ninety-seven bus she wouldn’t take bets on who would come off worst, the silly cow. His nose got broken when he was small. Noses don’t just break, do they? More specifically, someone broke his nose when he was small. He won’t tell me how it happened, but I suspect it had
something
to do with his dad. He never got it fixed, so he looks like a bit of a bruiser. This makes me smile because he could not be more unlike that. He’s sweet, gentle and kind. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, well unless he had to, like for work and stuff, obviously.’

Miles cleared his throat, searching for the right words to politely ask for less detail, he didn’t have all day.

Poppy took the hint, his fidgeting leg and cough put her on track. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you tell me what you know about Mart’s current situation and I’ll see if I can fill any gaps, then we can go from there?’ She sounded confident.

Miles was surprised, but happy, to let this girl take the lead; so much for the kid gloves that he had assumed he’d be wearing. He unbuckled his satchel and was thoughtful; trying to decide if she was naive and hadn’t fully appreciated the situation in which her husband had been placed, or whether she was cold, hard. The dilemma drew his brows into an upward ‘v’. If she was naive, then she would have little idea of what this level of publicity might mean and if she was a hard-nosed opportunist then her motive was probably money.

It was as if she read his thoughts. ‘I think I know roughly how this works, Miles. I know what I want from our meeting. I’ve been thinking over the last few days that unless I take control and make things happen, it’s all going to continue moving too slowly for my liking. I know it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better, but at least now I feel like I’m doing something.’

Miles nodded. She had answered his questions. He had underestimated this girl, she was smart and aware. ‘Right then, shall I kick off?’

Poppy nodded. He pulled out a cheap spiral-bound
notebook
and flipped over the cardboard cover. Poppy noticed the doodles that adorned the cover; random shapes and patterns, reminding her of an ornate Maori tattoo. He held his pen like a cigarette, whether consciously or not, he was telling the world that he wanted a fag; maybe that was why he spoke so quickly. He read without censorship. It made Poppy’s stomach clench and her insides flip over. He knew more than she did, more than she wanted to. It was awful and fascinating at the same time. She wanted to hear it, wanted to know what he knew, but at the same time, she didn’t.

He blew out from inflated cheeks, mimicking the exhaling of smoke. ‘Right, what have we got, a sortie in support of an American patrol code-named “Kryptonite”. They were
intercepted
in the Garmsir area of Helmand province and that was… four days ago. Two were taken, both Brits, one Aaron Sotherby, they decapitated and shoved his body, complete with severed head, at the gates of the barracks. Eyewitnesses confirm that one other, namely Martin, was taken hostage, certainly beaten upon capture, but probably not dead. Bundled into the boot of a car and taken further into the residential area of the province. We know it’s the ZMO and there has been one failed rescue attempt, with no further rescue attempts currently planned. So far
negotiations
have failed and it’s all gone a bit Pete Tong.’

He exhaled again and looked at Poppy. She could tell by his expression that he had forgotten who he was talking to,
delivering
the facts as though he were briefing a fellow hack and not the wife of ‘the other, namely Martin who was beaten… but probably not dead… bundled into the boot of a car.’

‘Are you OK, Poppy? I thought that you would know that stuff, I’m sorry if I—’

‘It’s OK, Miles.’ She tried to focus on what to say next, but all she could see was Aaron Sotherby and his decapitated body, his smiling photograph at the top of her TV screen, but without the head. If they had done that to Aaron, what would they do to Martin? Her legs shook under the table; tiny tremors that made the ketchup-filled plastic tomato jiggle. Her earlier
feelings
of confidence and control had disappeared, replaced with fear and shock.
Beaten… bundled into the boot of a car
… that was her husband they were talking about, this had happened to Mart, her Mart. She pictured him in the park in his teens,
swigging
from a can, laughing loudly and suddenly until beer foamed from his nose. How had he ended up like this?

‘Poppy, are you all right? You look really pale.’

She refrained from uttering, ‘No shit.’ ‘I’m really tired. It’s just the last few days taking their toll.’

‘So, is that about the gist of it or have I missed anything out? Is there anything that you can add to that?’

It was Poppy’s turn to laugh out loud, snorting pig-like into her cappuccino, most unladylike.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I’m sorry, Miles; it’s just that I don’t have anything to add to that. You have more than got the gist of it.’

‘I want to run the story tomorrow, Poppy. What do you think of that?’

‘I think that would be fine.’ It didn’t occur to her to check or get permission. Why would it?

‘Can I have a photograph of you?’

‘Oh God, I guess so. I hate having my photograph taken and I haven’t got any of me on my own…’

Miles was prepared. ‘That’s OK. I can take one now. You can see it first.’ He pulled out a small digital camera and started to click. He turned the small screen to face her. ‘What do you think?’

Poppy looked at the image of a girl that looked a bit like her, but was thinner in the face, with dark circles under her eyes and an expression combining abject terror with exhaustion. She was a girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘Fine,’ she muttered, neither caring nor understanding where this picture would go and what it would mean.

‘Can I ask you something, Poppy?’

‘Sure.’

‘What would you say to the people that are holding Martin if you could get a message to them right now?’

She considered her response. It was her turn to speak
honestly
and without censorship. ‘I would say, please let him go. What’s going on out there is nothing to do with him, nothing to do with us. I want him to come home where he belongs. He shouldn’t be mixed up in this whole thing. He didn’t even know where Afghanistan was. He just wanted a better life for us, that’s why he joined the army. I always knew it was a mistake.’